The Masque Of The Pale Death: A Castlevania Story
by Magus523
Summary: On Halloween night, at a masquerade, four old friends crash the party in order to hold their reunion. Short story.


_**The Masque Of The Pale Death: A Castlevania Story **_

_With thanks, and apologies, to Edgar Allen Poe _

The world was in chaos. There was war again, in both the west and east, with fear that the conflicts would soon become one that would spread across the entire globe, a third World War. Disease was as rampant as ever, new plagues created by modern science for every one that was cured. Ecological devastation led to famine, as edible crops grew sick and weak. And some whispered rumors of other things, darker threats that came in the night to prey on the weak and helpless, growing bold once more over the past few years as they had not for decades.

Mister Prospero, as he was called by even his friends and family, laughed at such superstitions. To him, the unknown and the arcane were nothing but fairy tales and conspiracy theories, fit only for the gullible and the insane. With cold eye and practiced sneer, he scoffed at the concerns of his advisers just as arrogantly, even as his nation became more and more destitute around him. War? Pestilence? Famine? Everybody knew how essential the military and pharmaceutical industries were to the economy, and as for the environment, well, progress always had its price.

The future was now, and progress was the name of the game. Mister Prospero had made his fortune by it, an economic empire that spread across a dozen different companies and fields, each efficient and pragmatic, dedicated to the accumulation of wealth and power at any cost. In the modern world, it was every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. Metaphorically, of course, since religion was just as much an opiate for the masses as any other superstition. He was above such things, and was proud to admit it, as proud as he was in everything.

It was as a testament to that pride that he held a party one fine autumn evening, with a thousand guests, handpicked from among the rich and the famous, preferably both. Friends and enemies alike were invited from all over the world, summoned to a suite of rooms he had commanded to be built for the occasion alone, atop the skyscraper from which he ruled his economic empire, the tallest and grandest in the entire city. He had built it himself, years ago, at the height of his youth and his rise to power, a perfectly cylindrical tower of glass and steel that loomed above the clouds.

Once the guests had all arrived, and the party had commenced, the building was sealed against all entry, the finest security technology that money could buy activated and programmed to kill without hesitation should any be so foolish as to intrude. For Mister Prospero was no fool, and maintained constant vigilance against those who would do him harm, as did the private army he employed to guard his life and that of his daughter, the only person in the world who he loved aside from himself. They were hard, cold men, well-trained and well-armed, each prepared to kill first and ask no questions later.

It was Halloween night, in the year 2037, and as darkness threatened to drown the world once more, Mister Prospero entertained those he deemed worthy at a masquerade of the old style.

The suite in which it was held was the entire topmost floor of the building, four rooms that each occupied a quarter of the space, so that one could walk from the first to the second to the third to the fourth and back to the first without ever turning around. Each was a grand hall in its own right, large enough to accommodate every one of the guests alone without the other three, though of course all four were available, the patrons moving from one to another and back again as their whims and wishes dictated.

Around all four, the curved outermost wall was made of glass reinforced in every way known to man, allowing the guests to gaze out over the clouds below, spreading as far as the eye could see in every direction on this dark and stormy night. The glass was stained, a different color in each quadrant, to match the rooms they surrounded, one for north and south and east and west. The walls between the rooms divided them equally, perfect diagonals each with a single door in their exact center, these portals the only exceptions to the color scheme of the rooms, painted to show what was beyond instead.

The room on the east side was all in red, carpets and walls and furnishings the rich hue of blood, and the bulbs of the lights that hung on the walls and chandeliers-thirteen, twelve at the points of the clock around one larger at the center-all shone in the same color. To the south, the room was black, dark and shadowed so that even those guests with perfect vision had difficulty seeing from one side to another. The westernmost room was the opposite, pure white, so bright and dazzling that the light was reflected off of every surface, straining the eye the longer one remained within it.

The fourth and final room, to the north, was the strangest of them all, for it was done in pale, sickly green. Specfically, an unhealthy, noxious shade that even the most jaded guest found somehow disquieting. This was, of course, the intent, and Mister Prospero's interior designers had labored hard to find the precise tint most perfectly calculated to disturb the human mind, at his express command. They had succeeded admirably, and though the guests moved through this room as readily as the others, they never remained for long, finding it unpleasant despite their bravado.

To accentuate the effect, the northern room alone contained something unique that was not present in the other three chambers, against the center of the outer wall. A massive clock of pale green glass, matching the rest of the room, so that its mechanical insides were clearly visible as they worked, ticking away the seconds and minutes and hours of the night. Its pendulum was a wickedly sharp, double-sided scythe, full-size, that swung back and forth with every beat. At every hour, it sounded off, deep dark chimes that echoed through the entire suite, clearly audible even over the music.

It was at the crux of the chambers where the four walls met that the musicians stood, upon the only part of the suite that was not one of the four rooms save for the elevators by which the guests had all arrived, three of them occupying the same position taken by the clock in the other rooms. A stage had been set at the center, and the dividing walls all ended there, so that one could look past the musicians and see the other rooms beyond. Their instruments were classical, and from time to time one guest or another would approach with a request, which the musicians were glad to oblige.

It was a marvelous party, all present agreed, decadent and energetic, growing more and more so as the night went on. All those gathered were known to Mister Prospero, and he to them, whether as friends or as colleagues, as rivals or as contemporaries. Celebrities and businessmen, politicians both domestic and foreign, the independently wealthy and the most favored of his own employees, criminal leaders and high-ranking generals all circulated and socialized as equals. Every vice imaginable was readily available, legal or not, and those present were glad to indulge, at their host's invitation.

Of all those present, only one stood apart, one who appeared as if by magic at the eleventh hour of the night, who none of the other guests recognized as having been present before. His costume was a suit of the finest cut and quality-if more than a century out of date-but its color was the same strange, pale green as the northern room, as was all of his clothing. He was tall and slender, and of him, only his head was visible, bald and pale. His mask was blank and featureless, a curved half-sphere of white that showed nothing of the features beneath, the means by which it remained attached to his face a mystery.

Though none of the other guests knew him, this did not dissuade them from approaching him; on the contrary, their curiosity was only aroused by the air of mystery surrounding the stranger. Those who spoke to him found him affable, courteous and clever, intelligent and witty with a sharp sense of humor and an excellent knowledge of any topic broached, his voice deep and rich. Regardless, something about him that nobody could quite define was strangely unsettling, and it was never long before they always found some excuse to move on, returning to their revelry.

Perhaps it was because he did not move from where he stood, near the clock in the northern room. While the other guests moved from one chamber to another, never remaining still for long, he remained where he had been since the moment any of them had first seen him, as if waiting for something or somebody. At least, until twenty minutes after the hour, at which point a second stranger entered the pale room, from the red door. As soon as he saw her, the man began crossing the room, so that they met in the center.

"Azrael, my old friend, it's been far too long," the woman in red greeted him warmly, her voice lush and throaty, attracting even more glances than she had upon entering. Her dress was elaborately layered and ruffled, cut low in the front, though not so much as to appear blatant, the color of blood. Her hair was the exact same shade, long and curled and adorned with a ribbon, and her complexion was warm and rosy. Her mask was a pearly gray, slightly rounded, and it covered her face from hairline to chin. A wicked smile was engraved upon it, and from one eye, a painted trail of red ran down the cheek.

"Indeed it has, my dear Carmilla," the man in pale agreed as they embraced. "Far too long indeed. I haven't seen you since 1872, and then only briefly in passing." This statement drew some startled glances from other partygoers close enough to hear them, but the two were already moving onwards, arms linked. As they passed a pair of servingmen, each took a drink from a tray, the man a tumbler of absinthe, the woman a glass of red wine. She leaned to whisper in the servant's ear, and with a smile, he did something to the glass before she took it, kissing his cheek in gratitude.

"Yes, the last proper occasion was in 1830, wasn't it?" the woman in red asked, as the wine in her glass grew clouded, ever-so-slightly darker now. "All those gloriously violent revolutions in Europe. I do hope you can forgive me for missing so many of them afterward. Even when I awoke, there were none going on at the time, and then after 1872... well, I never was quite as active as our master." They had reached the red door now, stepping through it into the east room.

"Entirely understandable, my dear," the man in pale assured her, the two of them continuing through the red room towards the stage. "Honestly, I'm just glad to see you again. There's been such a dearth of good company for so long now. More than a century since anybody I would truly call a friend has attended one of our master's parties." The last notes of the song wore down, and he leaned close to the musicians. "A request, good sirs, for a reunion with an old friend. Matsubara's 'Bloody Tears.'"

"I am sorry, sir, but..." one of the band started to admit their ignorance of both composer and song, only to trail off in shock as his hands began to move of their own accord. Looking around, he saw the rest of the band staring in equal surprise as they played, a stirring melody that none of them had heard or performed before in their lives.

"A pity," the woman in red said, as the two of them began to dance, slowly at first, then suddenly faster in time with the song. "I can only hope that the upcoming celebration makes up for it. Will it only be the two of us, or will there be any others of our... caliber?"

"Oh, indeed there will," the man in pale assured her, one hand clasping hers, the other holding his glass while his arm wrapped around her waist, as hers was around his. "Two more, both of who are also joining us tonight. They should be arriving shortly. One of them is a stranger to you, I'm afraid, though one you've likely heard of many times. The other, however, is another old friend, who I'm sure you'll be as pleased as I to see once more."

"Is that so?" she murmured. "Well, then, by all means, don't ruin the surprise. Now I'm curious. _This _should be good." They continued to dance, and when she spoke next, her voice was darker, an undercurrent of tension audible beneath the overtone of amusement. "I suppose I shall wait until they have arrived before asking my questions."

"Questions, you are well entitled to," he replied in a similar tone. "For now, let me simply confirm that your instincts are indeed accurate. There have been... complications with the natural order of things."

"I was afraid of that," she almost snarled, but then she spoke as she had before. "Though, as you said, that is for later. For now, tell me of what I missed. Was there never truly anybody else worth socializing with in all this time?"

"Only once, I'm afraid," he explained. "In 1917. What they now call the First World War. Before then, the master and I both decided to take 1893 off."

"You _skipped_ it?" she inquired, amusement and disbelief mixed in her voice. "Really, Azrael? _You?_"

"There _have _been occasions before when I was otherwise occupied at the time," he told her, taking no offense. "That time, however, there was no party at all. We simply weren't up to it. The master found his own entertainment. A fellow named Stoker wrote a book about it. It's quite good. And _after _1917, well... that was when things began to go wrong, though it wasn't until the next time that they truly became problematic."

"I can only imagine," she said sympathetically. "What of 1844, then? Or should I say, 1852?" Her voice took on a lighter, teasing tone. "I heard such stories about that one. It made me regret missing it even more."

"_That _was a less serious blunder," he replied, sounding pained. "A comedy of errors, to put it bluntly, especially considering how the Millerites got almost the exact opposite of what they thought they would. The best we could do that time was another war in Burma. I suppose I should have seen it coming after our machinists began producing _motorcycles _for the skeletons to ride, a century ahead of their invention."

"Oh, have they been invented, then?" she asked. "I was intrigued by what I heard of those. Do you suppose one would suit me?"

"Beautifully, old friend," a new voice joined them, and they both turned their heads as another man approached them through the crowds. His suit was immaculate, of the style currently in fashion, shirt and coat and pants all black, an outfit heavily contrasted by his choice of mask. It was a rubber caricature, of the type commonly made of presidents and movie stars, but this one was daring even for Mister Prospero's party, the features those of the current Pope. His voice was rich and dark, and his hands were dark as well. "I saw some on my way over, and I must confess an interest as well."

"And who..." the woman in red started to ask, before her voice rose in delight. "I don't believe it! _Shaft?_ Can that truly be you?"

"Indeed it can, and it is," the man in black replied as she disengaged from the man in pale to embrace him happily, which he returned. "You remain as beautiful as ever, dear Carmilla."

"Azrael mentioned an old friend, but I never imagined you would be joining us once more," she murmured, as the two of them began moving towards the black door, the man in pale following along with them. "Especially not without forfeiting your humanity. How absolutely wonderful!"

"As much as it suits you, I am afraid I would not adapt to it nearly as well," he confessed, taking a mug of dark ale from a tray in passing. "You understand, I trust."

"I do indeed," she said, arm linked with his now, the song winding down to its conclusion. "It's _so _good to see you again."

"Than I may consider my attendance here entirely worthwhile for that alone," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the man in pale as the three of them entered the black room. "Azrael, my friend, how have you been? Your invitation to this soiree was a welcome surprise."

"Quite well, Shaft," the man in pale replied, both of them inclining their heads politely. "Quite well. And yourself? The Vatican is unchanged, I trust?"

"Tediously so," the man in black agreed, his tone suggesting that he was rolling his eyes behind his mask. "The sooner we can host our own party, the better."

"Another party?" A new voice cut in, and all three turned as a young woman joined them, blonde and tan and dressed in blue. Unlike the woman in red, her dress was much more brief and less modest, with portions strategically removed almost-but not quite-to the point of indecency. Her mask was a simple domino, and her bright eyes vapid as she continued without waiting for a reply. "I hope _I'm_ invited. I'll admit, I'm impressed, and interested, too. How _did _you all manage to get in here? Nobody's _ever _beaten father's security like that before."

"I'm not quite sure what you're implying, young lady," the man in black replied, sounding amused rather than irritated at the intrusion, and she scoffed.

"Oh yes you are," she retorted. "I don't know _who _any of you are, and that's all I _need _to know, to know you're not supposed to be here. You've got some serious balls, crashing _this _party. I hope I don't have to tell you what father will do once _he _realizes you're not supposed to be here, and trust me, he _will _spot you eventually. Unless, of course, I tell him _I _slipped the three of you in. It wouldn't be the first time I've done that."

"Four," the man in pale corrected her absently in the same tone as the man in black. "One more will be joining us shortly. And what, pray tell, would we have to do to convince you, dear girl?"

"Oh, I'm not a girl," she told him, chuckling suggestively. "And I'll leave that up to you. You should be glad I'm giving you the opportunity at all. So, go ahead. Convince me."

"Well, if you insist," he said, bowing deeply before taking her hand. "May I have this dance, while my old friends renew their acquaintance?"

"Why not?" she agreed, her eyelids lowering. "You'd better be good, though. I have high standards."

"Trust me, young one, you won't be disappointed," the woman in red assured her, sounding even more amused than the men. "And perhaps later, you'll dance with me as well, once my friend and I have caught up?"

"My kind of woman," the other replied, smiling broadly. "I might just take you up on that, if he's as good as he say he is."

"There's nobody quite like him," the woman in red said, before glancing at the musicians, who they had approached a second time. "For a challenge accepted, please. Fukutake, Hanzawa and Funauchi's 'Battle of the Holy.'" Again the musicians found themselves forced to play a strange but stirring song, and as the man in pale led the other woman away into the darkness, she danced with the man in black, cutting and swerving around the other guests with speed and skill. "Well? Aren't you going to explain just how you managed _this_ one? Even for you, this should be impossible."

"'Impossible' is such an _unfortunate_ word," the man in black replied. "It limits belief, and imposes artificial restrictions upon the imagination. I'll admit, it wasn't easy. In the end, I was forced to result to reincarnation."

"And you were able to retain your conscious memory while doing so?" she asked, sounding impressed. "My friend, you have proven beyond a doubt your right to join Azrael and I once more. I've never known a human quite like you."

"From you, my friend, that compliment is unparalleled," he said warmly. "I will accept it, then, even though it _did _take me more than two hundred years. Two hundred and two, to be precise."

"False modesty doesn't suit you, dear friend," she told him, taking advantage of a lull in the beat to sip from her glass. "You know how meaningless a century or two is in our company."

"My little joke," he explained, drinking from his mug before they resumed their dance. "My only regret is missing so many of the master's parties in the interim. I'm sure you attended others?"

"Only one, I'm afraid," she confessed. "In 1830. It was only the master, Azrael and me for that one, and the dear man actually went before me when it became time to... _dance_ with the hero of the day."

"He only does that for those who he truly likes," he told her, smiling. "Well, unless he's only toying with them, but that hardly counts."

"Oh, of course." She chuckled wickedly. "Remember back in 1792, when he greeted Richter Belmont before he'd even arrived, while he was still riding the carriage over? The look on his face!"

"Hilarious!" he agreed, laughing as well. "A pity that young Adrian wasn't quite so surprised when he met him at the door in 1797. I would have enjoyed that."

"You know, I've never actually met him," she said. "The master's son, that is. Do you suppose he'll attend this time?"

"I have it on very good authority that he will," he told her. "He's been there for the last two times, and to my knowledge, he's still awake."

"Oh, good," she murmured. "What's he like? I've always been curious."

"I'm hoping he's grown up since I last saw him," he replied. "Back then, I'm afraid he was still a horribly melodramatic adolescent. _Far _too serious."

"Ah, the brooding, solitary type?" she guessed, and he nodded. "Well, that _does _have its attractions. The human women have always thought so, from what I've heard."

"Oh, don't get me _started _on _that_," he groaned, and she laughed again.

"That's right, I'd almost forgotten!" She said teasingly. "Azrael told me about that. Tell me, is it true? Really, _Maria __Renard_? She must have been what, seventeen?"

"At most," he agreed, still sounding pained. "That was one reunion I could have lived without."

"Oh, don't tell me you're still irritated that she killed you before she even hit puberty," she continued, still affectionately mocking. "She got me, too, you know."

"At least she only killed you _once_," he reminded her. "Even if you possessed your girl to keep going. I "danced" with her _twice_, and lost both times. Azrael and our master were lucky. At least they were up against Richter."

"Does it really matter, in the end?" she asked him more gently.

"No, I suppose not," he conceded, relaxing. "You're right, of course. Was 1830 any good, then?"

"Better than 1698, but not nearly as much fun as 1792," she answered thoughtfully. "A few rather pleasant little uprisings, some more bloody than others. I wasn't there for 1810, or 1820, but from what Azrael told me, I didn't miss much."

"You really didn't," the man in pale agreed as he and his dance partner rejoined them, the latter wide-eyed and short of breath now as the song began to wind down. "They were entertaining enough, but nothing truly significant or memorable. Mostly various incidents in South America."

"Well?" The lady in red glanced at the other woman, the tone of her voice matching the smile on her mask. "How was he?"

"Oh, _wow_," she replied breathlessly. "I've known some pretty good dancers before, but _that _was something else." She met the other woman's gaze, and their eyes seemed to lock onto each other, as something passed in the air between them. "You'll come find me later? For _our _dance?"

"I promise," the woman in red assured her, reaching over to touch her arm, and with a shiver and a smile, the other departed, casting one last lingering glance over her shoulder as she went.

"You haven't changed, I see," the man in black murmured, amused. "Still moving as quickly as ever."

"I like that," another woman's voice agreed, and they all turned as she approached, dressed in white. Her dress was of a more modern style than that of the woman in red, slinky and clinging, slit high up the thigh. Her skin was just as pale, almost eerily so, and her long, straight hair a vibrant emerald green. Her mask was hideous, a contorted horror halfway between man and bat, covering her entire head from the front. "I like _you _already. We _are _going to be friends." She turned to the man in pale then. "Uncle Azrael, it's good to see you again."

"_Uncle?_" the man in black and the woman in red both repeated in disbelief.

"An honorary title," the man in pale explained, taking the woman in white into his arms, and him into hers. "Allow me to introduce Elizabeth Bathory, our master's niece. Elizabeth, this is the lady Carmilla, one of your actual uncle's closest friends, and mine."

"Oh, of _course_," the woman in red said, smacking her forehead in a most unladylike way. "I should have guessed. Welcome, my dear. You're right, we simply _must _be friends."

"I was _hoping _you would be who I thought you were," the woman in white said, turning away from the man in pale to exchange a smile with her before turning to the man in black. "I've heard _so _much about you. And who, may I ask, is... oh." She drew closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "Oh, _my._ Can it be... are you actually _human?_"

"Indeed I am," the man in black agreed calmly as her fingers came in contact with him, only for her to pull away sharply as she hissed in surprise and pain. "Forgive me, my lady, but please don't try that again. I'm afraid I have to insist on remaining in control of my own mind."

"Hypocrite," the woman in red murmured fondly, and they both laughed.

"You..." the woman in white blurted out before trailing off, staring at the man in black, confused. "And you're one of _us? _What _are _you?"

"Our friend Shaft is something _very _rare," the man in pale explained; around them, the other patrons were giving them more peculiar glances than ever, but none of the four seemed to notice or care. "One who commands the powers of God, despite his alignment with _our _interests. A dark priest."

"A holy man," the woman in white murmured, as the man in black continued to meet her gaze, unflinching. "I'd heard it was possible, but I never truly _believed _it."

"I assure you, it's true," the woman in red told her, as they began to walk again, moving on a simultaneous instinct towards the white door. "You should have seen him back in 1792. They killed him, and without a moment of hesitation, his ghost went on ahead to wait for a rematch at our lord's door. And _then_, when they exorcised him there, he actually managed to _resurrect himself!_ On the spot!"

"You're _joking!_" the woman in white demanded incredulously. "That's impossible! No human has done _that _since-"

"Ah, ah, ah," the man in pale cut her off, wagging a finger reprovingly as they entered the white room. "_That's _going a little far, isn't it? Let's not attract undue attention, nor open _that _particular can of worms unnecessarily."

"Of course, Uncle Azrael," the woman in white agreed. "Forgive me. I was simply surprised, is all. But then, how...?" She left it hanging.

"I spent a few years lying low in France," the man in black explained. "Azrael and I entertained ourselves with the Revolution we'd started there until 1797, when we held another party. That time, they made sure to destroy my corpse, and I had no choice but to try for reincarnation. It took me quite a while, but here I am."

"_Conscious _reincarnation?" the woman in white looked at the man in pale, who nodded. "Isn't that a little..." She trailed off.

"More than a little," the man in black admitted, sounding faintly disgusted. "_Especially_ infancy. Fortunately, I was able to murder my parents not long afterward so that I could be adopted by the church." A passing servingman nearly dropped his tray.

"I see," the woman in white said quietly, and though her face was masked, the interest in her voice was clearly audible. "Well, now. Well, now _indeed_. I think we should be friends as well, Mister Shaft. I've only just met you, and already I can tell I've never known a human quite like you."

"You see?" Carmilla murmured. "I said the exact same thing. Oh, this _will _be fun, Azrael."

"Then let us be friends, Elizabeth," the man in black replied, taking her hand, and this time she showed no signs of discomfort. "If I may call you that. And please, no 'Mister.' May I have this dance, then?"

"Of course," she agreed, reaching out as a servant passed and taking a mixed drink, milky white, from the tray. A moment later, she glanced at it, and then after the servant, but he was already moving away. "Damn. I forgot."

"Allow me," the man in black said, touching thumb to index finger. A single drop of blood appeared on the latter, and he dropped it into her glass, the drink turning ever-so-faintly pink. "What's a taste, between friends?"

"The more I learn about you, the more I like, Shaft," she purred, as the man in pale and the woman in red watched, both visibly amused despite the masks that hid their features. Raising the glass to the hideous maw of her own mask, she lowered it a moment later. "_Especially _your taste."

"A sentiment I find myself returning wholeheartedly," he told her, as they approached the musicians, before turning to them. "A request, for a new friend. Yamane's 'Prologue.'" They began to dance, as did the man in pale with the woman in red, the two pairs remaining close enough to continue their conversation. "If I may ask, how many of our master's parties have you attended?"

"Only one, I'm afraid," she admitted, as the music surged, fast and fierce. "It's much more difficult to wake me up than our master."

"I understand entirely," the woman in red assured her. "I slept through the entire twentieth century. You can imagine just how different all of this is."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one who's done that," the woman in white replied. "Of course, there were the parties back in the sixteenth century-two of them, as I recall-but I was young, back then, and busy with my own amusements. In retrospect, I really should have been there. Poor Uncle Azrael here was taking care of me at the time, and he missed them both as well."

"Is _that _why you didn't attend those two?" the woman in red asked the man in pale. "I always wondered about that."

"Indeed it is," he agreed. "At least, one time. There was an error in time, and the party in 1576 -a nice little religious war in France, and some fun in Antwerp as well-happened twice simultaneously. I was able to attend one of the two, thanks to that, but not both, without leaving Elizabeth here alone. And I couldn't do that. I wasn't even that lucky in 1591. Missed it entirely."

The other three all considered that in silence for a moment, seemingly ignorant of the increasingly strange looks they were accumulating from everybody else around them.

"Does that happen often?" the man in black asked eventually. "Errors in time like that, I mean."

"Fortunately, no," the man in pale explained. "There was actually one in 1792, believe it or not, but that one was very small, and both times were nearly identical. You'd both remember both times the same. No, aside from an actual alternate timeline that ended up being created back before any of this started, the only real problem was the Simon Belmont incident back in 1691. Now that I think about it, I really should look in on that timeline and see how it's been doing. It's been a while, but to be honest, it's much more boring than this one, which is why I haven't done much there."

"How many 'times' did that one happen, then?" the woman in white asked curiously. "In 1691, I mean."

"Five, if you can believe that," he grumbled sourly. "All simultaneously, and all different. It was a temporal disaster, especially with everything that was happening in Europe at the time, even without our influence. You would not _believe _how long it took me to get it all straightened out, and in the end, I was only able to attend four of them personally. That was why I missed 1640, as well; I was too busy sorting that mess out preemptively to make it. I _despise _chronomancy."

"I can see why," the man in black said, sounding faintly awed.

"At any rate, that was what finally convinced me to seek assistance of a higher caliber than I'd been working with before," he continued, nodding his head at the woman in red. "Dear Carmilla and I had known each other for quite some time already, and when 1698 came around and I didn't have anybody else to help me make trouble in Europe with the master still dead, she was kind enough to assist a friend in need."

"I'd been considering it for quite some time already," the woman in red elaborated. "Even aside from all the fun we had-especially when we visited Whitehall in London-I'd heard such wonderful stories about Azrael's master. And when I met him myself, at a later date, well..." She trailed off, glancing downward.

"We understand," the man in black told her. "I felt the same way, when I first met the master."

"My relationship with my dear uncle is a little different, of course," the woman in white said. "But I can see where you're all coming from. If he _wasn't _my uncle... ah, well." She glanced at the woman in red. "Was that the next time, then? When you met him."

"I'm afraid not," the woman in red replied, shaking her head. "I missed that one. 1748, wasn't it, Azrael?"

"It was," the man in pale agreed. "It was all right, I suppose. A nice little conflict in Austria for some years beforehand to build it up. Nothing particularly special, but fun. The time after _that_, on the other hand, was 1792, and _that _one was one of my favorites, especially since both of these two were there. Revolution in France-what a riot-war between Russia and Poland, among many others... we even found time to visit Japan and set off a volcano. Now _that_ was a blast."

"I'm sorry I missed it," the woman in white murmured. "It sounds as if you enjoyed yourselves thoroughly."

"Oh, we did," he told her, chuckling wickedly. "_That _was when I found out that they _were _both bisexual, after all. Fairly definitively."

The woman in white snorted her drink.

"Only on very special occasions," the woman in red told him, sounding embarrassed, as the woman in white coughed. "_And _if sufficiently inebriated. Don't get me wrong, I certainly didn't _mind_, but as a rule I honestly prefer women."

"As do I," the man in black agreed quickly. "Adults, before anybody makes the obvious joke."

"We have more class than _that_, my friend," the man in pale told him. "And as to your preferences, what of the master?"

"Well, yes," the woman in red admitted. "But that's the master. He's an exception."

"Indeed," the man in black concurred.

"I can see I _have _been missing out on quite a great deal," the woman in white said, recovering. "You were right, Carmilla. This _will _be entertaining."

"From what I've heard, you were able to put on quite the show yourself," the woman in red complimented her. "I particularly enjoyed hearing about what you did with the Archduke."

"It was simply too good an opportunity to pass up," she replied. "And the results were quite marvelous."

"Indeed they were," the man in pale agreed. "A pity the Second World War after that wasn't quite as enjoyable. Oh, the party itself was just as much fun as the previous occasion, but when we finally got down to business in 1944, it turned out the one hosting the party had no intention of resurrecting the master at all! He was trying to _replace _him!"

"You _must _be joking," the man in black said, as both woman gasped in disbelief. "Even I was never _that _arrogant."

"It caught up to him in the end, I assure you," the man in pale told them. "At the time, however, I was hardly amused. I even suggested to the heroes of the day-a Morris, the son of the one you met, Elizabeth, and his girlfriend-that the three of us team up to deal with the arrogant upstart as quickly as possible before settling our own business. A pity they declined; it would have been a rare novelty."

"_You_, fighting for the forces of _good_, my friend?" the woman in red asked mirthfully. "Indeed it would have been." As the music began winding down, and they danced towards the pale door, her voice grew more serious. "You said that it was after that one that things went wrong, yes?"

"I did," he said somberly. "We should talk about that, now that we're all here, once the next dance begins." They disengaged from each other and entered the north room before trading partners, so that the man in pale now walked arm in arm with the woman in white, and the man in black with the woman in red, before approaching the stage once more. The clock now read thirty-five minutes past the hour.

"Another from Yamane, please," the woman in white told the musicians. "For inspiration, and for optimism. 'Reincarnated Soul.'" They danced away as the music played, the band growing more and more worried every time they were forced to play a song they had never heard before, but still unable to speak of their fear. "Now, then, Uncle Azrael." Her voice turned cold and hard. "With all respect... what the _hell _has _happened?_"

"They finally succeeded in what they have been attempting in ignorance for more than half a millennium," the man in pale snarled, sounding equally furious now. "The fools slew our master _permanently_, in 1999. Count Dracula is _gone_. The Dark Lord, the antithesis of God on Earth, is no more."

"How?" the woman in red demanded. "How is that _possible?_"

"They _cheated_, is how," he told them. "The vampire hunter-a Belmont, of course-had inside information before he even went in. Not just from that poxy bastard of a Saint, Germaine, but from an actual agent of heaven! One of Uriel's! They stacked the deck! By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. He's _gone_, and things have been going to hell ever since! The world population is already up to ten digits and rising!" This statement resulted in particularly startled glances from those close enough to overhear, even more than were already accumulating as they conversed.

"Yes, I heard about that, back at the Vatican," the man in black growled. "Is it true, Azrael? Has the master actually reincarnated as a mortal human?"

"He has," the man in pale confirmed. "The Cruz kid. Name of Soma. He's got talent, but young Adrian got to him before I could, and set him on the path of the heroes. I stopped by both times the castle attempted to bring about his ascension to the Dark Lord once more, and both times, he refused. He even went so far as to destroy the primal chaos at the castle's core the first time to stop it from forcibly opening the Door of Memory within his mind. He'll be no help to us, I'm afraid."

"He did _what?_" the woman in red blurted, the man in black and the woman in white both making similar cries of amazement.

"Fortunately, it didn't stick," the man in pale assured them. "The castle _always _returns, just as our master does, but they don't know it yet. The second time, the idiots he was up against thought that they were lucky enough to stumble across another castle completely identical, yet unrelated."

"And they fucking _bought _that?" the woman in red asked, sounding amused once more despite the tone of the discussion.

"Like discount _peixe_," he said, echoing the mirth.

"Who _was _it that was behind it, then, if you weren't?" the woman in white asked curiously. "With our master gone?"

"Amateurs, the way I heard it," the man in black told her, his voice dripping with contempt. "A pair of cult leaders like I was, but much more incompetent, and deluded as well."

"That's exactly what they were," the man in pale agreed. "The first actually thought _he _was the reincarnation of the master, without even bothering to have it verified, and the second intended to raise somebody else to the position of Dark Lord, without noticing that all three of her potential candidates would have gladly killed her. And yes, that includes the Cruz kid. One of the other two actually did, before attempting to ascend, and failing rather spectacularly. There's a _reason_ I had nothing to do with either when I dropped by. Imbeciles, the lot of them."

"You were simply scouting out the opposition, then?" the woman in red asked. "In preparation for the _real_ show?"

"Exactly," he said. "The Cruz kid isn't bad at all. He beat me twice, even if I never went all-out. Don't underestimate him, even if he's refusing his true potential. And then there's the Belmont who caused this problem in the first place. Julius. He's still around, backing the kid up, keeping an eye on him in case he ever loses it, and stirring up plenty of trouble all by himself. We'll have to come up with some way of distracting him, at least for a while. He's the one most likely to figure out what we're doing and throw a wrench in our plans."

"What of cousin Adrian?" the woman in white inquired. "You said he's been involved as well?"

"Oh, yes," the man in pale confirmed. "When his father disappeared for good, you can bet _he _noticed. Woke up on the spot and wasted no time in finding out what happened, and preparing for the fallout. He knew as well as I did just how bad this was, and still does, but of course he has different opinions from us on how to deal with it." He glanced at the man in black. "He's been working with the Vatican, hasn't he, Shaft?"

"For years now," he said, nodding. "His contact is one of their top agents. A Belnades, actually. I've managed to avoid her so far, but there have been more than a few narrow misses. I understand the two of them are _very _close."

"He never was able to resist plucking the fruit of the family tree," the man in pale commented, and the four of them all laughed. "She's as talented a magician as the rest of that branch?"

"Quite," he replied. "I've heard they have another ally as well. Former U.S. Army."

"Really, now?" the woman in white murmured scornfully.

"Oh, don't go underestimating that one," the man in pale told her. "Mike Hammer by name, but his mother was a Danasty, if you can believe that."

"Now _that's _a name that hasn't been involved for a _very _long time," the woman in red noted. "Not since 1476, was it?"

"That's correct," the man in pale agreed. "The second time our master hosted one of our social gatherings, back when he still openly ruled his nation. Trevor Belmont, Grant Danasty, Sypha Belnades and young Adrian. I was _so _disappointed when Trevor was the only one who bothered to attend in 1479." He paused for a moment before continuing, sounding disgusted. "Well, there _was _one more time, more recently. But that doesn't count. Another chronomantic distortion, but one that didn't actually produce any results. It literally never happened. We'll talk about that later."

"Yes, we are getting slightly off topic," the woman in red said. "Will they be the only ones we'll have to concern ourselves with, then?"

"Only if I'm unlucky," the man in pale growled. "Hopefully that fornicator of swine Germaine will join in as well, and maybe even Uriel's flunky too, though I'd be perfectly happy with the Saint. This would be the third time he'd interfere with our affairs, and you know what they say about three strikes."

"I'm not sure I do, actually," the woman in red confessed.

"I'll explain it to you later," the man in black assured her. "So then, Azrael. What _is _our plan of action? I assume we're going to start by getting their attention in the usual manner."

"Correct," the man in pale replied. "After that, the next step will be to ensure that Julius is otherwise occupied."

"Why don't we do what I did, back in 1914?" the woman in white suggested. "Lead him a merry chase around the world, but _this_ time only as a decoy. Make it look like we're going around searching for something vitally important, that they don't know about. They won't be able to take the risk that it's not related to our plan. They'll have to send somebody to deal with it while the rest investigate the castle, and from what you've told us, he's the most likely to go off on his own."

"Brilliant!" the woman in red said approvingly, and the men both murmured in agreement. "Perhaps some trustworthy minions, who can lead packs of marauders out to terrorize and rampage?"

"I know the perfect ones." The man in pale snapped his fingers. "We'll call up all of the undead knights who've served us over the centuries, and we can each choose one to be our 'champion,' to make it more convincing. Sir Talos, Sir Rowdain, Sir Gobanze and Sir Grakul. They've only gone one round each, but their souls should still be willing to return again. Shaft, I'll defer to your expertise."

"I was about to offer," the man in black said lightly as they moved on to the red room once more, the song coming to an end. "Provide me with all the necessary details, and I'll be glad to oblige."

"Most excellent," the man in pale told him, before turning to the musicians again. "To invaluable friends. Adachi and Kudo's 'Room Of Close Associates,' please." They exchanged dance partners yet again, so that the man in pale now danced with the man in black, and the woman in red with the woman in white, drawing yet more attention from the other guests. "You see, this is why I'm glad to see you all again. Before you began attending, the best I could do at the master's parties aside from him was to hang out with _Slogra_ and _Gaibon_. And then they _mated_, and _reproduced_. Ugh."

"'Hang out with?'" the woman in red repeated dubiously. "A modern turn of phrase, I assume. I'll have to remember to get caught up with those."

"I'll help you," the man in black told her cheerfully. "I've been around for thirty-eight years now, so I'm well ahead of you."

"Since we're on the subject, who else should we invite to the party?" the woman in white asked. "We'll want to make sure to go collect them all _before _anybody starts following along, and for this occasion, we'll have to make sure the guest list is a good one."

"I've already acquired a few of our favorite animal acts," the man in pale told them. "A wyvern, a behemoth, and a doppleganger. Nothing special, but the classics are always fun."

"That they are," the man in black agreed. "I'll see if I can find a pair of sea serpents, as well. Those are always good. There are still a few of them left in the Indian Ocean, I believe. And since you mentioned Slogra and Gaibon, why not invite them as well? They're not _that _bad."

"Oh, fine." The man in pale sighed. "But if we're doing that, somebody should really find a minotaur and a werewolf as well."

"Leave that to me," the woman in white offered. "It's been too long since I visited Greece, and Switzerland as well. What else?"

"Well, we _have _to get all the master's favorites," the woman in red pointed out. "I assume another phantom bat has arisen by now? I was always good at finding those."

"Of course," the man in pale replied. "There's always a phantom bat somewhere in the world. It's one of life's little constants, and despite what you might think, I _am _fond of those on occasion. By all means, my dear. I believe the current one is somewhere in Argentina. Would somebody else like to put together a new Frankenstein's creature, then?"

"May I?" the woman in white asked. "My first try was decent enough, I suppose, but even then I knew I could have done better, and I'm sure technology has marched on since then."

"Indeed it has," the man in black confirmed. "And as it so happens, the Vatican knows the whereabouts of a descendant of the original Igor. I'll get his address for you, so you can stop by and ask for his assistance. I suppose I'll volunteer to go to Egypt and dig up a mummy, then. Are we still using the Akmodan dynasty?"

"There are a few of them left, yes," the man in pale told him. "Their tombs are lost, like all the rest, of course, but I still remember where they are. I'll provide you with a map. Get two; this _is _a special occasion, after all. I'll go to Greece with Elizabeth and see Medusa. I've been meaning to talk to her about her attendance anyway; I don't mind missing a party if you're asleep, or otherwise occupied, but not bothering to come out of fear and laziness is another story. Perhaps I should ask if she'd prefer that I refund the deal I made with her sisters for her resurrection and immortality."

"I'm sure you'll manage to get through to her admirably," the woman in red murmured, laughing shortly. "'Immortality.' Really, Azrael. You don't have to pretend with us. We know how much of a joke _that _concept is."

"_You_ do, but _she _doesn't," the man in pale reminded her. "And it's the closest she-or they-could get, after all." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes. Now that I thought of her, I might as well stop by Ireland and invite Dullahan too. Would you believe that _they _hooked up as well?"

"Another modern colloquialism," the man in black told the women, who both murmured their acknowledgment.

"One can only hope _they _never reproduce," the woman in red muttered. "And on that note, I'll go ahead and summon a succubus."

"Just make sure you get one that knows what she's doing," the man in black said, glancing at the man in pale. "Remember the idiot who decided she was going to crash the party back in 1797?" He shuddered.

"Dare I ask what _she _did?" the woman in white inquired as the man in pale groaned.

"She decided to try and steal your cousin Adrian's soul on a whim," he explained. "And she transformed into his _mother _to do it."

"Oh, _dear_," the woman in red murmured, somehow managing to give the impression of wincing despite her hidden features, as the woman in white choked on her drink again. "_Wrong_."

"The master was _not _amused," the man in black agreed. "At all. If we're summoning demons, then, I'll see if I can get us a Cerberus. Those are always fun."

"And I'll call up a Legion," the woman in white suggested. "I've always wanted to try that. Does anybody else have any other ideas?"

"Oh, I just remembered," the woman in red said, sounding delighted now. "You'll never guess what I saw being advertised on my way over here. The Coffin Creeps! They've become a _band!_ One involving _rocks_, for some reason!"

"A rock band?" the man in black asked incredulously after a moment. "_The Coffin Creeps?_"

"Hilarious, isn't it?" the man in pale replied, suppressed laughter audible in his tone. "They put on a _killer_ show. No mummies, but the Cyclops and the Pazuzu are both still there, and they've recruited the Skull Knight King to fill their third spot. What the hell, book 'em. The Cruz kid could use a laugh." He inclined his head to one side. "There's a few more I have in mind, but we'll get to that in a bit. For now, one more thing. We should expect the Bone Dragon King to crash the party." This was greeted with a resounding chorus of groans from the other three.

"I don't suppose there's any chance we'll be able to catch him and chain him again?" the woman in white asked hopefully.

"Did you actually do that?" the woman in red inquired, sounding impressed. "If you did, then I'm afraid it definitely won't work a second time. He's not going to let it happen twice. I _hate _that thing."

"And there's nothing we can do to keep him out, I trust," the man in black guessed.

"Unfortunately, no," the man in pale confirmed. "Not even _I _hold any power over _that _freak." He paused. "Well, not yet, anyway. I'll get him in the end, but for now, we'll simply have to deal with the situation. Now then, that should be more than enough guests to keep the Cruz kid and most of his posse busy once they arrive. While that's going on, young Adrian will most likely go off by himself and investigate just what we're up to."

"And what _will _we be up to?" the lady in red asked innocently. "Aside from the obvious, of course."

"Filling the position of the Dark Lord," the man in pale explained. "By any means necessary. At least, that's what we _want _him to think. He'll believe that, even from us, if we convince him it _is _absolutely necessary. And it is."

"I _see_," the man in black murmured appreciatively. "I hadn't thought of that. But he _would _be a viable candidate as well, wouldn't he?"

"More than," the woman in white agreed. "Of course, we're not settling for anything but the genuine article, but we should be able to fake it convincingly. I assume there's a reason we'll be doing so?"

"Because the Cruz kid won't let that happen," the man in pale explained. "He _likes _your cousin Adrian. They're _friends_ now, even if he probably wouldn't admit it. If it comes down to that, and we offer him a way out, without _either _of them needing to take up the position, he'll take it. Which is when we play our trump card. There's one more noteworthy ally of theirs. One who hasn't gotten involved with the physical side of things, although she's been trying to learn how from the Belnades on her off days when he hasn't been looking since the second time. His not-his-girlfriend. A classic case."

"Are you _serious?_" the woman in red asked, delighted. "That's _adorable!_ I take it we're not going with the usual virgin sacrifice routine?"

"Definitely not," the man in pale said. "The clowns who ran the last two shows have played that one out already. No, I say we indulge her. It _is _rather commendable that she wants to be able to support him if necessary, and she _does _have genuine holy powers. She's a shrine maiden, you see. A _very _good one. She might even almost become as good as you, Shaft. Eventually, of course. And you'll _never _guess who _her _last preincarnation was. I almost didn't believe it myself."

"That's not funny, Uncle Azrael," the woman in white said sharply.

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" he asked her, voice low and dark, as they moved towards the black door. "She might just be the only one capable of reaching the memory of our master's soul, separating and retrieving it from the Cruz kid. Of actually bringing him back in his original form. _Our_ job is to make them _want _to do that, and to ensure that she has the skill to make it happen. If they honestly believe it's the only way... if we don't leave them any other options... they'll see the logic. And with any luck, Julius will be too late to stop them."

"My friend, I must congratulate you," the woman in red said slowly. "As always, you're the best there is, at this. That only leaves the question of _how_ we're going to convince young Adrian that it _has_ to happen there and now. That won't be easy." She smiled as she saw the young woman in blue who had danced with the man in pale earlier, waiting on a couch; as their eyes met, the other woman stood, a dreamy smile appearing on her lips. "But I'm afraid I really must fulfill my promise. Pardon me for this dance, dear friends. I will return shortly."

"Did you bring any invitations to our party with you, by any chance, Uncle Azrael?" the woman in white asked lightly as the woman in red approached the woman in blue and they began to whisper to each other, even as their hands joined. "Somehow, I have the feeling that that one will, in fact, be joining us."

"How _did _you guess?" the man in black replied, exchanging an amused glance with the man in pale, as the woman in red led her new partner towards the stage by her hand, the latter's eyes slowly losing focus as her smile widened. "I trust you both realize that her father has noticed us by now."

"_Everybody_ here has noticed us by now," the man in pale said calmly. "Dear me, I do hope nothing happens. That would be terrible." All three laughed, and he stepped back. "You two go ahead. I'll sit this one out."

"Hey, you," one guest slurred drunkenly, moving in front of the woman in red. "How many times you guys gonna hog the music, huh?" Her gaze locked onto his, and he stepped back immediately, pale and trembling, only for her to glance at her companion.

"Dear, would you?"

"You get your turn when I _say _you get your turn, Oscar," she snapped, instantly recovering her senses and speaking as she had when she'd first approached the group. "But if you want to lodge a complaint, go ahead. I'd be _glad_ to tell my father." Blanching even further, he retreated, mumbling apologies, and she glanced at the woman in red. "Was that good?"

"Beautiful, my dear," she replied huskily, and the other woman's eyes began clouding again as she turned towards the musicians. "For a night of wonders. Tomita, Iwata, Ueka and Kimura's 'Dance of Illusions.'"

"Does this happen often, then?" the woman in white asked the other two, as she began to dance with the man in black.

"Oh, yes," he told her. "As I understand it, she always has her favorite with her. A new favorite every time, of course." He glanced at the man in pale. "Twenty bucks says her name is Laura."

"No bet." The man in pale chuckled, following them while remaining clear of their dancing. "Nice try."

"There are worse things in the world than routine," the woman in white said, shrugging. "I'm curious, however. Just how long _have _you known her, Uncle Azrael?"

"Now, now, you know better than that," the man in pale told her, wagging a finger. "A gentleman never reveals a lady's age. Suffice it to say that the master is older than her, but not by much."

"Which brings another curiosity to mind," the man in black added. "Would it be too rude to ask just who occupied the position of the Dark Lord before our master's time, Azrael? I assume there must have been somebody."

"Oh, yes," the man in pale agreed. "So long as mortals exist, just as there will always be God to create them, and give them life... so there must also be a Dark Lord, to keep the population level under control. Until the master came along, though, nobody ever held the position for more than a century or two, with the exception of the Bone Dragon King. He was the first, before humans really evolved to the point where one of them could take the job."

"I always wondered about just where he came from in the first place," the woman in white murmured. "That explains why he's such a wild card. Have you always been tasked with serving them, then, Uncle Azrael?"

"Yes, but also with judging them," the man in pale explained. "And your master was the first who I truly found worthy. All before, I eventually disposed of. Well, most of them, anyways. I gave Medusa and Dullahan both a shot at it, on the occasions when I was most desperate, along with the occasional demon. None of them were up to the task, obviously. The rest... a long succession of lunatics and idiots, often both, throughout history. You have _no idea_ how glad I was to see somebody who could finally assume the role permanently. Of course, things had gotten especially bad immediately before."

"I take it one of the last few preceding our master was particularly offensive?" the man in black guessed.

"Almost hilariously so," the man in pale confirmed. "Almost. Some two-bit vampire who looked into the future, and saw the master's rise... and so decided that _he _would become the _true _Dark Lord, by-get this-changing his name to the master's and pretending to be him when the time came!"

Neither of the other two spoke for several moments, while nearby, the woman in red choked on her wine suddenly, prompting concern from her partner.

"You _can't _be _serious_," the woman in white said eventually.

"I _wish_," the man in pale grunted. "Be glad you didn't have to _be _there. It wasn't even as if _he _even _had _much of an excuse compared to the master." He raised his arm to his mask, feigning exaggerated sobbing. "'Blah, blah, my wife died of _natural causes! _I devoted my life to the church, but now I'm going to become a vampire and the Dark Lord just so everybody else has to suffer as much as I did, including God, for not going out of his way to save her!' Gah. I hope for _his _sake that _he _never rises once more. _That_ bit in particular would not go over well with the master."

"Ah, _no_," the man in black agreed, drawling the second word for several seconds. "Was that one at least useful?"

"Slightly," the man in pale conceded. "If nothing else, he provided me with an opportunity for a few test runs of what ended up becoming our usual arrangements, so that we already knew what to do when dear Sonia came knocking at the master's door and started it all."

"I still find that somewhat hard to believe," the man in black murmured. "The first of the lineage to confront and slay our master, a woman? A _human_ warrior woman? In 1450?"

"Remember, she _was _a Belmont," the woman in white told him. "If she'd cared, she wouldn't have been one. That was what they _did_. And even if no mortals were willing to train her, cousin Adrian would have found somebody who would."

"Valid points, all of them," the man in black conceded, inclining his head slightly. "I suppose I wasn't thinking."

"You'd be surprised just how many people _don't_, about that," the man in pale told them, sighing. "A pity, considering just how good she was. And then, well, we all know what happened after that."

"Every nonhuman sentient on the _planet_ knows what happened after _that_," the woman in white commented dryly. "And possibly some that _aren't_."

"That's actually fairly close to what we need to talk about, once Carmilla rejoins us," the man in pale noted idly. "Which shouldn't be long; the song is nearly over."

"What shall we discuss until then, then?" the woman in white asked. They all considered this for several seconds.

"How about those Red Sox?" the man in pale suggested eventually, causing the man in black to bounce a palm off of his own face.

"The... _what?_" the woman in white asked, visibly confused. "Is that some sort of new fashion, or...?"

"Azrael was being facetious," the man in black explained.

"Ah."

"That's what makes him so charming, isn't it?" the woman in red replied, joining them once more. "His sense of humor. That was an absolutely _marvelous _dance, my dear, but my friends and I have a few more matters of import to discuss tonight. Perhaps once we're done, you and I might find somewhere _else_ just as... private?"

"Can we?" the other woman asked vapidly, her smile wider and her eyes more vacant than ever; her neck now bore a pair of fresh nicks, so small as to be barely noticeable, neither of them bleeding. "That would be nice. I'll come find you."

"And if you don't, my dear, _I'll _find _you_," the woman in red promised. "Always."

The other woman didn't reply, but the smile she gave her over her shoulder as she walked away spoke louder than words.

"She seems nice," the woman in white commented as they went through the white door. "In an absent-minded, devoid-of-all-independent-thought sort of way. What's her name?"

"Laura," the woman in red replied, causing the other three to trade an amused glance. "What? I _like_ the name Laura. It's not as though they _all _had the same name."

"Oh, of course," the man in pale agreed ironically. "I almost forgot about Lara."

"Liar," the women in red accused him cheerily. "You never forget _anybody_."

"She's got you there, my friend," the man in black told him before turning to the band. "An old favorite. Matsubara's 'Monster Dance.'"

"Ha!" The man in pale laughed, as did both women, and the man in black nodded in acknowledgment before he began to dance with the woman in red, as the man in pale did with the woman in white. "Now that you've rejoined us, my dear, I take it she'll be joining us for our party as she requested?"

"The dear girl _does _want to come ever so much," the woman in red replied innocently, and now all four of them laughed. "I trust it won't be an issue?"

"Not at all," the man in pale assured her. "On the contrary, it's related to something else I wished to discuss. Do you remember Drolta Tzuentes the witch, Elizabeth?"

"How could I not?" the woman in white said fondly. "Dear, silly, stupid Drolta." She glanced at the other two. "Would you believe that she actually resurrected _me _by _accident?_"

"Oh, my," the man in black murmured, chuckling along with the woman in red. "That _is_ rather... impressive, I suppose."

"She died, I assume?" the woman in white asked casually. "After I did? She was watching over our master during his resurrection."

"She did," the man in pale confirmed, nodding. "He needed some time to transform, so soon after his revival, and I wasn't able to recreate a physical form just yet after my own loss, so she was all that was available. The old dear didn't stand a chance, of course, but she didn't let that stop her. In the end, she learned courage after all. Now then, do you remember how she once mentioned that she suspected one of her children of surviving?"

"Are you telling me the dear woman actually has _descendants?_" she asked incredulously. "Ones who currently live?"

"One," he told her. "A man of science, rather than magic. As vilified as his grandmother for his equally... abnormal... interests in the field, though of course _we _have a much different definition of such things. Just as incompetent, unfortunately, but with the right guidance and education, I'm sure he'd be an asset to our cause. Doctor Damon Tzuentes, currently operating out of a back alley in Moscow. Would you be interested in taking him under your wing, my dear Elizabeth?"

"I'd _love _to," she said delightedly, breaking the dance for a moment to hug him. "Oh, how I've missed you, Uncle Azrael."

"Should I be looking for a lieutenant of my own, then?" the man in black asked, amused. "Or did you have a potential candidate in mind for me as well?"

"There _is _one promising young man who managed to survive the most recent occasion," the man in pale replied, resuming his dance with the woman in white. "One of the failed candidates for the position of Dark Lord, though thankfully, an opportunist rather than a true believer. It shouldn't be difficult to explain matters to him. Frightfully stupid, of course, but _very_ enthusiastic. Dario Bossi by name. He's hiding out from the Vatican in England, burning down trailer parks for fun, at the moment. Does that sound about what you had in mind?"

"That should do nicely, yes," the man in black agreed. "How _did _he manage to survive, however? I assume he is human, like me?"

"He is," the man in pale said, audibly amused. "Which is _why _he survived, as a matter of fact. His powers came from the demon Aguni. Once _he _was slain, poor Dario was completely harmless. At least, to the Cruz kid, and if you can believe this, he didn't want to kill another human if he could possibly avoid it, no matter how evil. He _let _him run away."

"Oh, this kid's a riot!" the woman in red laughed, as did the others. "You should be able to remedy _that _problem in short order, Shaft."

"I'll be disappointed in myself if it takes me an hour to restore his powers, even stronger than before," the man in black agreed. "Well then, that just leaves you, doesn't it, Azrael?"

"Yes, you need one as well, if the rest of us do," the woman in white chimed in.

"Oh, I already know who _I'm _bringing," the man in pale assured them. "I'll be calling in the Morgenstern for this one."

"The Morgenstern?" the man in black asked, glancing at the woman in white, who shrugged.

"His horse," the woman in red told them, watching the man in pale. "Now _that's_ a first. I don't believe you've _ever _brought _him _before. This situation _is _serious, then."

"His _horse_?" the woman in white murmured, slightly disbelieving, and the man in black returned her shrug.

"It is," the man in pale confirmed, his voice growing deep and dark and angry. "There is a reason we can no longer afford to indulge the pratfalls of amateurs. Julius was unaware of the consequences of his actions. There _must _be a new Dark Lord, and there must be one soon, or we will _all _pay for it for all eternity. Without the master's power, the seal upon _Galamoth_ is weakening once more, even faster than before. There has already been one incident that was fortunately erased from time. Soon, he will be _free_." Again, the man in black and the woman in white exchanged a glance, and then a mutual shrug, but the woman in red hissed, drawing back in surprise and fury.

"And who is Galamoth?" the woman in white inquired.

"A being beyond mortal comprehension, from another plane of existence entirely," the man in pale told them. "An interdimensional conqueror, who sought to dismantle this universe at the seams and add its pieces to his empire. A threat so great that even the Dark Lord saw to it that he was sealed within the deepest reaches of the castle, once I helped young Adrian destroy him during his childhood. When his prison began deteriorating in 1797, he made sure to go down and kill him again in order to reseal him, not that something like _that_ ever truly dies at all. If he were to be freed _now_..." He left it hanging.

"Then _he_ would become the new Dark Lord," the woman in red snarled. "No. You are correct, Azrael. That would be the end, for all of us."

"Really, now?" the man in black asked lightly. "The end of the world?"

"Just the opposite," the man in pale told him, meeting his eyes. "Were Galamoth to take the power of the Dark Lord, his first act would be to banish _me _from this world. Permanently. He is the only being I have ever met aside from our master who has completely defied me, aside from that cheating whoreson Germaine, and he doesn't count."

"Ah." The man in black considered that for a moment, before continuing in the same quietly enraged tone as the man in pale and the woman in red. "That is _not _how the position of the Dark Lord was meant to be interpreted."

"My sentiments exactly," the woman in white said coldly, before her voice lightened slightly. "But there _is _one advantage. If cousin Adrian is the one most familiar with this Galamoth, then he will see the necessity of finding another to take the position, immediately. That only leaves the problem of him simply going down there and handling it himself while he's there anyways, like you say he did in 1797."

"I _do _recall you saying something about that at the time, Azrael," the man in black recalled, the four of them dancing towards the pale door. "Without providing this much detail."

"It wasn't truly important, then," the man in pale told him. "The boy had slain Galamoth before. I knew he would be able to do so again. This time, however, we'll have to ensure that _doesn't_ happen. I'll have the castle arrange its layout so that he can't get down there... but that young Cruz _can_, once he's accepted his true power in preparation for the procedure, and it's too late to call it off. It's best not to take any chances with Galamoth. We'll want him dead once more before we start the ritual."

"Can you actually communicate with the castle?" the woman in red asked, surprised, as they entered the pale room; it was now much more populated than it had been for most of the night, and more guests were still coming in behind them. The clock now read five minutes to midnight. "I knew it was intelligent, but I didn't think anything like _that _was possible. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering this _is _you, Azrael. You really _do _have everything covered, this time."

"It was necessary," the man in pale replied offhandedly, his voice slowly growing more serious as he continued. "It _is _necessary. This has gone on for far too long. Humanity has forgotten their fear of vampires, of the true _nosferatu_. Of the night, and the dark, and all the terrors and horrors that come with it. It is time that they were reminded of just how fragile their world is, and how brief their lives are. Amateur hour is over. Now it's _our _turn, and I vow before you all, and yes, even before God himself... Count Dracula _will return_."

"Well put, Uncle Azrael," the woman in white agreed, glancing at the musicians, and though her face was hidden, her voice made it clear that she was smiling beneath it. "For anticipation, good sirs. Yamashita and Terashima's 'Out Of Time.'" The band played on, still forced to remain silent, still playing unfamiliar music against their will, and she looked back at the man in pale as she danced with the man in black. "You know, I've always wondered. Who _were _all these composers? I've heard their songs a hundred times, but you never told me who they were, or when and where they lived."

"I must confess, I've wondered that myself," the woman in red said, and the man in black murmured in agreement. "I've never been able to find any record of any of them, or any of their music, elsewhere."

"Ah." The man in pale glanced away, seeming embarrassed. "I'm afraid that _that _is a _very _complicated story, and... well, I hope you won't be insulted when I say you don't _want _to know. It has nothing to do with you, I assure you. It's simply that there are some concepts that truly are beyond the ability of mortals to comprehend, living or not."

"We understand, my friend," the man in black assured him. "Especially since I'm still having a bit of trouble with the part about events taking place multiple times simultaneously, let alone the one that never happened. I assume that was what alerted you to the problem of Galamoth?"

"You got it," the man in pale confirmed, sounding irritated. "Ugh. Now _that _was a headache to sort out, and it was really stupid even _before_ that happened. Be glad you _don't _know anything about it. Then again, I suppose I should be glad that at least it wasn't another freaking _book_. Or worse, more _pachinko slot machines_. Sometimes I _really _hate my existence."

"You know something, Azrael?" the woman in red asked after several moments of silence, during which the other three all stared wordlessly at the man in pale. "I believe you're absolutely right. We really _don't _want to know. I can't say I blame you."

"I doubt any of us could," the man in black agreed. "As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to wonder just what it was you possibly could have done to earn _this _level of punishment after being cast out. I don't think you've ever told us."

"I _have _always wondered," the woman in white chimed in.

"Oh, that?" the man in pale remarked cheerfully. "_That _was disproportionate retribution at its finest. So I keyed the Godmobile. Does that really justify what happened to me? I think not."

"You _what_," the woman in red said flatly.

"Keyed the Godmobile," the man in pale repeated innocently. "Like I said, _massive _overreaction. The big guy went and invented _baseball_ on the spot, just for me, only he didn't really have the part with the batter down yet, and I got to be the ball. Specifically, a 300-mile per hour fastball, straight at Earth, just when the dinosaurs were really settling in. The worst part wasn't the impact, though. It was the _atmosphere_. That's what happened to all my, you know, meaty parts, if you ever wondered."

"Do you know what the worst part is?" the woman in white asked the other two casually. "The worst part is, I can't honestly say for sure that he's making this up. I'm _almost _sure, but I can't be _absolutely _certain."

"That _is _rather terrifying, isn't it?" the man in black agreed, and the woman in red nodded as well. "Only you, Azrael. I suppose next you're going to tell me that it was _that _experience which gave you your... unique... outlook on existence?"

"Not quite." The man in pale shook his head, and though his voice was still light, it was clearly deliberate, concealing his true emotions. "_That _came as a result of sixty-four million years alone on this world, as the only sentient being in existence. Trapped here, unable to return, with nobody in existence to talk to, to have any sort of conversation with at all. With nothing but my duty. My task. My punishment. That was why what I do became what I am, in spirit as well as in letter. And if that makes me insane... well, I'd like to see anybody else do any better, free will or not."

"Is it true, then?" the woman in red murmured curiously, tilting her head to one side. "That you, and all of your kind, lack that? Free will?"

"It is," the man in pale confirmed. "Whether we be risen or fallen, blessed or damned, angel or demon or something in between like me... we can only act according to our natures. And you all know very well what _my _nature is."

"That we do," the woman in white agreed. "I would feel sympathy, Uncle Azrael, but I know that you would view that as a mortal insult, so I will not. I would say I understand, but that would be a lie, for I know that that is impossible. Instead, let me simply say... I'm glad to be your friend."

"As are we all," the man in black concurred.

"Indeed," the woman in red said simply.

"And I am glad for that as well," the man in pale told them all. "Mortal though you may be, you and the master are kindred spirits of mine. With all of us together, we may just be able to put on the greatest party we have ever held. I'm looking forward to this." He glanced around as more and more guests entered the pale room, nearly the entire thousand now. "My, my. It seems we've attracted even more attention than we thought."

"I wonder if anything interesting is going to happen," the woman in red said innocently as the last beats of the song wound done, as the hands of the giant clock came together pointing due north, and its chimes announced the midnight hour. "Ah. It seems the time has come to be free of our masks, and show our faces to one and all."

"Indeed it has," another voice agreed, and they all turned as a short, stout man in an immaculate suit walked in through the white door, followed by a dozen extremely muscular guards. His mask was that of a classic vampire, deliberately, ironically shoddy and cheesy, made of paper and tied on with string. "Good evening, everybody. I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you all here for this moment. It seems that some uninvited guests have intruded upon our revelry."

"Can this be true?" the man in pale asked innocently, all four of them well aware that they stood alone in the center of the room, all other guests standing well clear of them. "Who would dare insult us, with this blasphemous mockery?"

"My question exactly," Mister Prospero, for indeed it was he, replied contemptuously. "Fortunately, one that is easily answered. A thousand guests have been invited, and a thousand faces are known to me. All we must do is remove our masks, and then we will know who will be thrown from the battlements at sunrise, in a most unfortunate accident." A ripple of laughter cascaded amongst the crowd, all the revelers having heard him clearly, for Mister Prospero was a bold and robust man despite his age and stature, and the music had been hushed.

"By all means!" the woman in red agreed cheerfully. "Who will be the first, then, to reveal himself? Or herself, perhaps?"

"As I am the host of this gathering, it is only right that I lead by example," Mister Prosper replied coolly. Untying his mask, he let it fall, revealing his features, mustachioed and jowly under cropped gray hair and cold eyes of the same color. "And now, also as host, I believe I will decide who will be next. The four of you, in any order of your choice."

"As our host commands, so it shall be," the woman in white purred, raising her hands and removing the horrific head of the bat. She was beautiful, in a cold, lifeless way, like a statue carved from marble. Her lips were blood red, as were her eyes, even chillier and more penetrating than those of Mister Prospero, and her smile was chilling as well.

"For indeed, we are gracious guests, as well as grateful," the man in black agreed, the next to take off his mask. Pulling the rubber mockery of the Pope from his head, he let it fall to the floor. His skin was dark, and his head shaved; while his features were handsome, his golden eyes were wide and bulging, the gleam of the madman and the fanatic within them.

"If our host wishes to see who we are, then we are all too pleased to oblige," the woman in red said with a wink before delicately removing her gray mask, a drop of red falling from the eye of it as she did. She was as lovely as the woman in white, but in a more vibrant, lively way, almost seeming to glow with a flushed energy and emotion. Though she wore no makeup, her eyes were the same blood red as the woman in white.

"Ah," the man in pale murmured, theatrically glancing from one face to another, as the guests all watched in silence, along with Mister Prospero and his guards. "That just leaves me, doesn't it?" He glanced at the band, as silent and motionless as all the rest, and inclined his head. "My thanks for your excellent performances, good sirs. If you would be so kind as to indulge me in one last request, momentarily. Crimson Glory's 'Masque Of The Red Death.'"

"Oh, _please_," an unseen reveler commented, and others laughed, though Mister Prospero was not among them, his now-narrowed eyes intent upon the man in pale.

"I _love _this part," the man in pale said to nobody in particular, and the smiles of his three companions grew wider, though none of them showed their teeth. He took the sides of his mask between fingers and thumbs, and pulled it away. With it came the skin of his head, false ears coming off easily, revealing a bare skull with empty eye sockets and eternal grin. A moment passed, in which nobody said a word or made a movement. And then the lips of both the woman in red and the woman in white parted, revealing mouths full of sharp, hideous fangs six inches in length.

Mister Prospero was the first to react, even faster than his guards. His hand darted beneath his coat, pulling a handgun with startling speed. But before he could fire it, spinning sickles appeared from the air around the man in pale, materializing and flying forward. One, two, three, they slammed into Mister Prospero's chest, blood gushing from each wound. There was a sharp cry, and the gun dropped gleaming upon the pale carpet upon which, instantly afterwards, fell to his knees the mortally stricken Mister Prospero.

In that instant, both the woman in red and the woman in white flew forward like arrows from a bow, their gaping jaws foremost. Before any could react, they were upon two of the guards, their fangs closing upon their throats and ripping them out. The other guards turned upon them, far too slow, as they moved to the next, and the next, and the next. Flickering between their victims in less than a second for each as they fell two by two to the floor, their necks bloody ruins of torn flesh and ripped meat, the vampires continued their grisly feast.

The man in black had turned his attentions upon the crowd, and as the quickest of them began to scream in terror, he was already murmuring words under his breath, arms crossed across his chest. Twin spheres of light appeared in each hand, translucent and crackling with energy, their colors shifting. He threw them out, to slam through the chests of the unfortunate guests, before recalling them to his hands and repeating the process. Those thus stricken fell instantly, charred and gaping craters where their hearts had been emitting smoke.

The musicians remained frozen to the spot, until they began to shake and shiver, pain beyond imagination filling them from head to toe, still trapped in silence and unable to scream or move. Their final sensation before death was the hideous feeling of their own skeletons coming to life inside them, struggling to burst free, clawing at their bodies from within. They ripped themselves apart, flesh and blood bursting like balloons, blood-soaked skeletons emerging from the ruined shreds of their living bodies.

And then, when the entire band was freed from flesh, they began to play the song requested by the man in pale, their instruments transforming into guitars and drums.

The man in pale who was now their master sang in time with the music, snapping his fingers once before pulling a microphone stand from the air before him. More sickles began to appear as well, flying out as he pointed with his free hand, to maim and decapitate the terrified revelers who had filled the room.

The vampires had slain all of the guards before a single bullet had been fired, and were moving on to the guests as well, unsated by the blood they had already drunk. The man in black continued to kill with impunity along with them, his eyes blazing and his smile terrifying. To make matters worse, those felled by him did not simply lie dead; after a few moments, the smoke from the holes in their chest began to increase, and then their bodies burst into flames.

By now, each and every one of the guests had realized the true horror of what was happening around them, and what their own fates would be. Some were attempting to flee, but the doors had disappeared as if by magic, leaving only blank walls with no way out. Others, maddened by fear, were attempting to hurl themselves to their demise through the windows, but the reinforced glass refused to give way no matter how hard they threw themselves against it. Some, summoning the wild courage of despair, threw themselves towards their attackers, but this only made them easier to kill.

Still the man in pale sang, dramatically whirling his microphone stand around as he danced alone in the center of the room, his compatriots continuing their work. Now his sickles flew randomly, in wild directions unguided by the finger of his free hand; instead, those he pointed at were subjected to the same fate as the musicians, their own skeletons coming to life and ripping themselves from their bodies.

As the skeletons began to turn upon the crowd, grinning eternally while they ripped them limb from limb, the first victims of the other three began to rise to their feet. Those slain by the vampire women were hideous corpses, for the most part, rotting at an accelerated pace. These were even more vicious than the skeletons, ripping flesh and organs from their victims and devouring it eagerly in their mindless, hideous hunger.

One in ten, however, rose unchanged from their former selves save for their ravaged necks, at least at first. As they stood, their teeth burst from their mouths, forced out in gushes of blood by the new fangs that had sprouted. Staring at their fellow guests with now-sunken eyes as their skin paled, they moaned before pouncing upon them, and more blood spurted, staining the carpet red. Unlike the rest, they were still capable of speech, though their words were nothing but meaningless ramblings of hunger and insanity.

Equally horrifying were those slain by the man in black. Once the blaze started upon their deaths covered them from head to toe, their flaming carcasses lurched back to their feet, vaguely humanoid horrors of living fire. Driven by pain and hatred, they fell upon their fellows to spread their suffering; the flames had become their bodies without consuming them, and their rampage was as dreadful as the others, if not more.

The man in pale continued to shriek, glorying in the carnage as the slaughter continued. Striking a pose, he pointed dramatically at the window behind him as something began to approach, a barely visible dot in the distance racing across the tops of the clouds at great speed, growing closer and closer with every beat of the drums.

In an explosion of glass, the creature leaped from the clouds and smashed bodily through the glass, landing inside the room. It was a horror from a madman's nightmare, twin horse skeletons of steel rather than bone, crossing each other like an elongated X so that their spines merged beyond their rib cages. Dual skulls tossed as eight legs beat upon the blood-soaked carpet, its hissing cry a hideous distortion of a horse's neighing, and several guests were crushed underfoot as it raced towards the man in pale.

As the steed approached, the man in pale bowed dramatically to the terrified victims of the slaughter before throwing the microphone stand, spinning, into the air. Following suit, he did an impossible backflip, twenty feet high. As he twisted and turned, he produced two things from inside of his coat. The first was a top hat, and the second a massive scythe, neither of which could have fit. Landing upon the nightmare horse's back where the two spines joined, he placed the hat upon his head, and opened the hand that had held it to catch the microphone stand as it fell.

Still he screamed out in song as he rode into the crowd, scythe flashing out and cleaving heads from necks en masse. The bodies of those decapitated fell, but the heads did not; flying in the air, they began to emanate light, bright spheres that encased them. Eyes glowing and jaws gaping, they descended upon their former fellows.

By now, the vampire women had apparently drank their fill, for they had ceased feeding upon victims. Instead, each of them had turned to creating new horrors of even more kinds, simply by fixing their gaze upon the unfortunate partgoers. Those chosen by the woman in red began bleeding from every orifice, as well as from under their fingernails, and likely toes as well, for it spilled out of their shoes just as readily. Once they had perished, dried and wasted husks, the massed blood they had released rose in vaguely human shapes to drown other revelers within itself.

The guests who the woman in white chose were subjected to a fate even more gruesome. Paralyzed, they could only moan and scream in horror as their flesh began to expand, as if inflated. Growing larger and more deformed with every second, their clothes ripped and torn by their involuntary transformations, soon they were only vaguely humanoid shapes of gross pink tissue, their faces crude and their limbs blunt appendages. As if enraged beyond sanity, they began smashing everything within sight, including their fellow victims.

The man in pale continued to croon as the horse carried him through the crowds, leaving death and devastation in his wake wherever he went, even more than the rest of the monsters. Scythe in one hand, microphone in the other, he presided over the massacre with glee, as the skeletal band continued to provide the soundtrack to the slaughter.

The man in black had apparently grown bored of his first means of murder as well, and had moved to another along with the rest. Now, he gesticulated wildly in the air before him, as if ripping something out from something else and hurling it into the air. Each time he did, a guest would freeze, only to fall dead to the floor as a hideous wraith rose from the corpse. Howling in fury and misery, the ghosts swooped through the air, falling upon those who remained-and there were not many of those, now-and tearing them asunder.

A thousand guests had been invited to the masquerade, and a thousand guests died that night, at the hands of the four ancient abominations who had come unknown to them. And now was the presence of the pale death acknowledged, for as they died, each and every one of the revelers saw him appear before them, even as he sang and danced and rode across the room. He had come like a thief in the night, his friends with him, nearly as terrible as he. The woman in white and the man in black and the woman in red and the pale death, the death of all who had ever lived, and all who ever would.

The man in pale sang joyously, as the last of the guests, cornered and helpless, followed the rest into his arms. His steed reared, then leapt onto the stage next to the band, and he rode in a circle around them, scythe raised above his head. The musicians finished the last notes of their song, and with them, the final victims fell.

One by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his or her fall, until none remained. None save for the four friends, and the horde of the undead they had created, and Mister Prospero, who watched the entire affair, unable to rise or move from where he knelt. And the life of the ebony clock went out with the last of them, and the light of the chandeliers expired.

Only then did the woman in blue approach, the ghouls and ghosts and other horrors all parting before her as she walked towards her stricken father.

"Laura..." Mister Prospero whispered as she regarded him calmly, her smile as glassy as her eyes, uncaring of the slaughter around them.

"Father," she replied warmly, before kneeling to embrace him and stare into his eyes. "I've wanted to do this since I was a child." And then she kissed him fully upon the mouth, before her lips peeled back to reveal her fangs.

"Is _that _what modern music is like?" the woman in white asked the man in black conversationally, as if nothing had happened at all, as Mister Prospero's screams echoed through the now-silent room. "It's different. Not bad, I suppose."

"I _like _it," the woman in red murmured. "Very interesting. We'll have to find some more of it to listen to."

"Allow me, my dear Carmilla," the man in black promised her. "I'll see to it." He glanced at the man in pale, and then at the horse he rode. "The Morgenstern, I assume?"

In response, the horse neighed once more, both heads in unison.

"Unsurprising," the woman in white replied, as if it had spoken intelligibly. "It's nice to meet you, as well. You've already met Carmilla, I assume."

"Indeed we have," the woman in red agreed. "Hello, Morgenstern. It's been quite some time."

Again the horse neighed, the sound as hideous as before.

"Aptly put," the man in black commented, rubbing his hands together. "Well, then. We've made a good start, tonight. Shall we take them with us?"

"Eh," the man in pale said, shrugging. "Nah. We're a long ways from Romania, we've got places to go, and there's only a thousand of them. Not really worth bothering dragging around the world. Let's just leave 'em here to go wild in the city until morning."

"_That _should certainly get everybody's attention," the woman in red predicted. "I can't wait to see what the police think of it. That's what they're called now, isn't it, Shaft? Police?"

"Correct," the man in black told her. "Personally, I'm going to enjoy the newspaper headlines most of all." He chuckled wickedly. "Let's see them try and cover _this _one up."

"So much for this quaint modern notion that the supernatural isn't real, I suppose," the woman in white added dryly, looking around at the horde of undead with contempt. "You'd think at least one or two of them would have caught on and left before midnight."

"People are like that, these days," the man in black explained, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "Oh, many of them _say _they'd believe it, if they ever actually saw it with their own eyes. They boast and brag about how much they'd actually enjoy it, how well _they'd _adapt, unlike everybody else. But they only do so _because_ they don't _really _believe. It's all talk. And because they don't, when the reality of the situation _does _stare them down, they look away and laugh, just like everybody else."

"It's well past time we reminded humanity of their own mortality anyways," the man in pale commented. "Let them deny reality if they wish. The night cares not for whether they believe in it or not. It simply is, and those who pretend otherwise do so at their own peril." He snapped his fingers, and from a distance came the sounds of engines roaring, before three motorcycles broke through the clouds, racing vertically. Turning towards the room, they came through the hole the Morgenstern had made through the window, and came to a halt on the carpet, one red and one white and one black.

"Brought by those who no longer have need of them, I assume," the man in black guessed. "How very considerate of you, as always, Azrael."

"Coming, Laura?" the woman in red asked the woman in blue as she stepped back from her father's ruined carcass.

"Of course," she answered, with a bloody smile, as she climbed on behind the woman in red, the woman in white and the man in black mounting their own bikes as well.

"One last touch," the man in pale said, dipping the end of his microphone stand in blood before raising it to paint upon the wall. Humming under his breath, he draw a ridiculous cartoon of a robed skeleton clutching a scythe and a young vampire confronting an armored dinosaur with a sword together, deliberately childish and silly. "There. Young Adrian should understand _that_ well enough, once he learns of our work here tonight, and he will."

"A wonderful night's work it was," the woman in white told him as he brought the Morgenstern up next to them, and they all rode out through the window and across the clouds together. "A wonderful party. How do you always find the right ones, Uncle Azrael?"

"To be perfectly honest with you, my dear Elizabeth?" he replied off-handedly. "I just choose one at random, on the right night. It could have been anywhere. It could have anybody."

And darkness and decay and the pale death held illimitable dominion over all, as they always had, and always would.

_Author's Note: Because I needed a break from the story I'm spending most of my writing time on at the moment. Because it's always been my favorite holiday. Because I've wanted to write a story in this setting for a long time. Because I've always been a fan of Poe, and I hope this butchery of his brilliance doesn't bring retribution from beyond the grave down on _my _head. But most of all... because the best monsters never grow old, as long as we remember _why_ they're the best. _

_Happy Halloween. _

_PS: The original version did, in fact, have the Grim Reaper singing the lyrics to "Masque Of The Red Death" throughout the last scene, but after examining the current rules and regulations, I regretfully decided not to risk it. I know all too well just how happy the authority around these parts are to jump on any excuse to make examples of anybody who puts a toe over those lines. The result is inferior in my opinion, but there's nothing I can do about it. Oh well. _

_PPS: Special thanks to Mr. P's Castlevania Realm. _


End file.
